A Walk Across A Giant Hot Parking Lot
by marylouisefisher
Summary: A humorous look at a musical moment in Starsky and Hutch's shared lives. Told in Starsky's pov.


A Walk Across A Giant Hot Parking Lot Mary Louise Fisher

"Love and sacrifice: the recipe for a good marriage."-My Aunt Zelda

"Add a pint of suffering and a couple blisters."- Dave Starsky

I am a listener. I became one when, Hutch, my partner, was asked to join The Troubadours, an award winning Gay Men's Chorus. (Him: This is such an honor. Where's my pitch pipe? Me: Mazel Tov. In your hand.) I listen to practices, rehearsals, and concerts. I listen to singer's angst, singer's singing and singer's complaining. And, I hear a lot of group gossip. (Love that gossip.)

Good thing I like schmaltzy musicals and show tunes. All except "Camelot". I heard "Camelot, Camelot" in my head for months after last year's performance. (And, while we're at it, tell me all the memorable songs from that musical. Yeah. Me neither.)

Anyway, Robert (baritone) and Sol (wobbly tenor), who came out recently and got married after a twenty year love affair, introduced us to their ex-wives, Grace and Frankie. Grace, was chairing a fundraiser for Women's Health and Frankie came up with the idea to combine the Women's and the Men's Choruses at the event.

I missed the meeting when the boys and the girls fought, I mean, debated about the finale. I heard that it was a bitter duel between the madrigals that the girls wanted to sing and "Camelot"-Because the guy's didn't want to learn another number just to sing with girls. (Can you say junior high?) My partner, acting like camp counselor got in the middle, stopped everybody from yelling at each other and suggested "Camelot" done madrigal style.

(Like the undead, my unfavorite was showing up to terrorize me. It couldn't be killed. It lived on and on in their repertoire.)

Later, Grace said she was impressed with the way Hutch acted like a traffic cop. She also said she enjoyed hearing Sol and Robert argue about Sol using all the milk and Robert having to eat dry cereal. She told me that Robert should eat stale dry All Bran every morning. Though, she's over their breakup now and getting on with her life. (You think?)

The best thing about Hutch singing in the chorus besides the gossip is practice two times a week. He calls it commitment. I call it Nachos and Cheese with Fast And Furious on the side. Surround sound and sub-woofer on! Crank that sucker up- he's half way down the street! (We all need Me Time, in my opinion.)

So, yeah, "Camelot, Camelot" except I kept singing it "Spam-a-lot". He said he sang it that way at the last practice. And, as second tenor section head, he was mortified, so enough with the singing already. But, I hum it and he knows I'm thinking "Spam" and not "Cam". (What is living together, after all, if not to find new ways to annoy your partner?) Now, I can't find my Disappearing Tardis coffee mug.

Our last skirmish occurred during rehearsals for the Holiday Extavaganza in December. Hutch had that solo in a Norwegian Christmas carol. He sounded like the Swedish Chef from The Muppets: Yule ool lool yah fur vill floo.

Which is how it sounded to me and what I started singing. Because if you're living with a singer and he is practicing and practicing and…you know him, you know how he is. Then, what they are singing is going to get stuck in your head. Don't blame me, it's like vocal brainwashing. You CAN'T get it out of your head. It's fucking stuck there. Anyway, my Batman bobble head was threatened with a hammer.

The demand? That I stop singing the song that way. As a matter of fact, to stop singing entirely. And, if I really wanted to do him a favor, stop breathing. This was said with the Hutchinson finger fully erect and pointing at me. I ceased and desisted. (His pitch pipe mysteriously stopped working the next day. I guess it didn't like showering with me.) What he doesn't know won't hurt him (or me) is my motto.

And, speaking of pain, let me tell you about why I'm hobbling around with these blisters. I have suffered for his art. Because I am not only a listener, I am a gofer.

"I forgot my vest," Hutch called me an hour before Boys and Girls show time.

"No problem, I'll bring it to you."

"This parking lot is full. Park at the Dollar Rama. Bye."

Dollar Rama? I love that store. You know the one I mean-everything is a dollar except the thing you want. You bring the neon green squirt gun up to check out and they say: That will be $2.99. And, when you ask why, they tell you it's a seasonal inventory item and not on sale. (Or, was 'Hi, My Name Is Shirlure' taking a personal bonus on the item?) I just asked why in a polite, but forceful manner and she explained it again and I asked again. Anyway, the manager came and asked me to leave.

It was the spirit of the thing, know what I mean? Everything is supposed to be a dollar. That's what I wanted to pay for my squirt gun. Hutch was behind me in line and bought it instead. Outside the store, he shoved the bag into my hands and said, "Here! From now on I'm going to pretend I don't know you."

When I got there the place was hopping. It was the Everything ½ Off (as long as it has a green tag and looks broken) Sidewalk Sale. So, I figured with sunglasses on and avoiding Shirlure, I could pop in before the concert and get a deal or three.

It was a lot hotter outside than it was in my air-conditioned car. And, I was way in the back in Row Z space 3. I needed to get all the way up to Row A. Then, survive the Crosswalk Speedway before I could start saving. Around Row K, I wished I'd left my tie in the car. At Row H, I loosened it. At Row D, I stuffed it in my pocket.

After a steamy walk across a giant hot parking lot, I finally got to the sale. And, was it worth it. The long tables spilled over with a bonanza of all the crap China could throw at us and still keep up friendly relations. I started my power shopping adventure by heading to the far right table with the handwritten sign marked Automootive.

There were Zoo Warz car air fresheners—Chewbaca-like grizzly bears, Yoda-like turtles, and Darth Vader-like bats. There were those car coffee mugs that tip over when you touch them. Plus, window decals that said things like-Baby on Bored, I Break for Otters and God Is Aleave. Moving on- the Kitshun display had praying hand bottle openers, egg scrapers (I don't know what they did, but I knew Hutch didn't have one, so I got it for him), boxes of broken straws, and something that was either a pink dildo or a paper towel holder. I was picking through a box of collectible fake teeth when my cell rang.

"Where the hell are you?"

"At the sidewalk sale."

"What?"

"At the…"

"I mean, why are you there?"

"You told me to park at Dollar Rama. Their big sale is on."

"Starsky, they have that sale every Saturday."

"Yeah, but they put different things on sale. And, this is their Semi-Annual Clear Out Close Out Clearance. Ooh, I think I see a blue squirt gun like mine. You want it?" I heard him counting real slow. (Hmm, not interested in the matching gun, I guess.)

"…8, 9… Darling?"

"Yeah, Sweetheart?"

"I need my vest."

"Be right there."

I quick browsed the Underall table, nothing zebra striped on it, and blew past the Tiny Toodlers display. Got in the checkout line. Was right behind a screaming kid who was a poster child for justified child abuse, when I was suddenly distracted. The manager wheeled out a display of those Laff-A-Lott tee shirts. You know the ones I mean-really cheap fabric, dumb sayings, you wear them once and they become car drying rags. (I love them.) They blew the 3 for 1 horn and it was off to the races.

Stampede to the rack. I snagged the ones that said: I'm With Him and He's With Me. (Cute for cookouts.) Just needed a third one, I was deciding between Tuna Jaws, a shark in a can, and Tinkerbelle in a leather jacket, when my cell rang.

"We go on in ten minutes."

"Almost there. Can you break a twenty?"

"What?"

"Have a good show, Honey."

"Thank s. Just come backstage."

"Okay. Can I get this rainbow slinky, too?"

"What?"

"I so love you." I hung up. I had to hurry.

Hurry across that giant even hotter parking lot, to deliver the vest on time. I started to run (okay, jog) on that asphalt desert. I was doing fine until Row R you able to assist me, I'm going to die here in this flameless hell. (Coronary or heat stroke? You make the call.)

When I finally limped to my space, his vest was gone and so was my car. A tsunami of sweat was pouring down my sides. My shirt had melted into my skin. My heels were blistered and bleeding. And, my tie was a casualty. (It fell out of my pocket and a Volvo ran over it in Row O.)

"Sir, do you need any help?" A kid collecting carts approached me.

"Uh, I can't find my car."

"Where did you park it?"

"Right here. Row Z3."

"This is Z33."

"Oh. Hey, I think I see it. Thanks."

"Are you sure you're okay, sir?"

"I'm fine. Just got a little confused that's all."

"My Grandpa is old and he loses things all the time, too. Have a nice day."

Dammit, kid, I'm not old and forgetful. I just get distracted at sales.

When, my cell rang, I just let it go to voice mail. I knew what it was going to say anyway. Something about a vest and a divorce or words to that effect.


End file.
